


After Years and Years

by arthurmorgan-s-heart (Silverblind)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Spoilers, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/arthurmorgan-s-heart
Summary: -SPOILERS-It's not often that one gets a second chance at something that should have been. A chance meeting with someone you had never thought to see again gives you just that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill from my tumblr blog. Uploaded here for convenience - find me on tumblr - arthurmorgan-s-heart
> 
> Orignal request text: "Your fics are so amazing! I love your writing. Could I request Arthur and Readers first time together with gentle and adoring arthur? Whenever you can of course. Thank you!"

There’s a ghost riding into town.

You think you might be imagining things at first - maybe it’s a vague resemblance in a stranger’s face, or perhaps the early evening’s fading light, that tricks your mind into seeing something impossible. But as he rides closer, you realise you have it right, and barely hold back a gasp. There is grey threading through his hair and peppering his beard, but he seems otherwise unchanged - there’s no mistaking him.

You can’t say you had ever expected to see Arthur Morgan again.

You realise you’re staring, and you hike up your shawl over your head and turn away before he can see you - if he hasn’t already. You hold your breath as he rides by, the rapid rhythm of his horse’s hooves in the muddy street seemingly as loud as thunder, echoing the panicked beating of your own heart. He doesn’t stop, and you raise your head to look at him again when you’re sure he’s passed you by, your mind racing. You take a few steps forward before stopping yourself. You  _know_ you should let it go; you had worked hard to get away from that life, the life he came from, a life of pain and regret and -  _no_ , that’s a lie. There had been joy in those days, a happiness you had never found before or since. You had called them family - and Arthur could have been even more, had you just let go of your fears and accepted his affection (something you had wanted so, so badly to do, though your courage had failed you then, and you had dwelled on what could have been for more years than you cared to count). The pain had come later - after some showed their true colours. But not Arthur; he had always been good and honest with you - and some days, even after all those years, you still found yourself longing for what you had then.

Yes, you know that it would be safer - and, most of all,  _wiser_ \- to just let it go, to stay away from town for a few days until he moves on, as you’re sure he will; but, well, you had never been wise.

You follow him from a distance - he had slowed his horse from a trot to a walk, making it easier to keep track of him. You still can’t quite believe what you’re seeing - it had been years since your escape from the Van Der Linde gang’s death throes (at Arthur’s urging, you can’t help but remember), and you had thought him dead. He had told you himself, all those years ago, that he had not expected to make it out of that mess alive - and when your efforts to find him had turned up nothing, you had assumed the worst, though a sliver of you could not help but keep hoping.

You’re still not quite sure how you should feel - it is jarring to see someone you had finished mourning long ago alive, in the flesh, and but a shout away.

You keep your distance as you watch Arthur stop in front of the saloon. He hitches his horse out front before making his way inside. You hesitate for a moment - you’re not even sure what exactly you’re looking to achieve, following him like this; conflicting feelings swirl and rage inside you: sadness, anger, lingering grief, and a longing you would like to ignore - but above all, insatiable curiosity; what exactly had happened back then? To Dutch? To Micah? What was his life like now? Where had he been all those years?

It is that curiosity that finally makes you step out into the street, crossing hastily before climbing the steps leading to the door. You take a deep breath, trying in vain to steady the beating of your heart, and step inside.

In all your years of living in this town, you had never liked the saloon; dark, noisy and crowded, it was nonetheless the only such establishment in town, leaving locals and travellers alike with little choice.

Your eyes scan the room, looking for him, but only strangers greet you eyes, a sea of faces you don’t recognize. Perhaps you should go back outside and wait for him to come out again? Which could take hours - if he came out before the next morning at all. You let out a frustrated sigh.

Before you can decide what to do, a hand lands on your shoulder; you let out a surprised yelp, almost reaching for the revolver hanging at your side, but a familiar voice stops you.

“Lookin’ for someone?”

You turn slowly, and you see him, smiling that smile you had wished you could forget, and looking at you with eyes a vivid green you had yet to see anywhere else, instantly bringing back all sorts of feelings you thought you’d gotten over years ago. You stand there, dumbfounded, a thousand thoughts and questions running through your mind.

“I thought you were dead.”

The words leave your mouth before you can even think of holding them back, and you immediately feel heat rising in your cheeks - all these years, and  _this_ is the first thing you manage to say to him?

He chuckles quietly; his laugh sounds different than you remember - older, somehow guarded.

“Not yet,” he says, taking his hand off your shoulder. “Not sure how I made it this far, but I did.”

You can only look at him, taking him in; as you had noted before, he is almost unchanged, but for a few more wrinkles and scars - that do nothing to make him less handsome, a traitorous part of you notices. His clothes are slightly worn, but clean - a heavy leather jacket, a faded shirt, a pair of jeans - and he still has his old hat - his father’s, you recall dimly.

You look back up at his face in time to see him doing the same to you, looking you over, taking note of everything that had changed since he had last seen you. You can’t help but quietly wonder if he minds the years that time has added to your face.

“You said you weren’t gonna make it,” you say softly. “I’m glad you were wrong.”

An invisible weight suddenly seems to fall on his shoulders, his smile dimming as he looks away.

“Yeah,” he replies before adding, in a whisper: “Still don’t know if  _I_ am.”

His words stab at your heart, and you reach out to touch his arm lightly; you see him look at where your hand is resting, close to his elbow, with something you would almost call surprise in his eyes. The noises of the saloon fill the silence between you, but you speak again before long, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What happened?” you ask, and you almost think he hasn’t heard you over the din of the saloon, but he meets your eyes again and gestures toward the door.

“Maybe we’d better find someplace quiet for that conversation,” he says, and you nod, letting your hand fall away.

“Follow me,” you reply, and start toward the door. “I know a place.”


	2. Chapter 2

You’re not sure exactly what makes you decide to bring Arthur back to your home, but you’re already well on your way there by the time you start questioning your decision - much too late to change your mind, though you’re not certain that you want to. The night is dark and crisp, and critters scatter as you ride by, back to the shadows between the trees that border the road.

Anyone would call your cabin modest, nestled as it is in a clearing at the edge of a forest near town, but it is more than enough for you - Lord knows you had had much less for most of your life. The small house was almost a palace compared to the tents and dilapidated buildings you had spent years living - surviving - in.

You leave Arthur outside to lead the horses into the small barn at the back of your cabin - at his insistence - while you make your way inside. The cabin is cold and dark, but the fire you get going in the hearth quickly makes the place more welcoming, both with its heat and its warm glow.

Arthur opens the door just as you’re pouring out two glasses of whiskey, taking off his hat and gloves before doing the same with his jacket, placing them down on a chair next to the door. He turns to you, and you motion him closer, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before lowering yourself in your own chair. You had barely spoken since leaving town, him seemingly gathering his thoughts and you simply too nervous to say much of anything. He reaches for his glass, tipping it toward you in thanks before taking a sip. The silence stretches on, only broken by the crackling of the fire.

Finally, he sighs, looking at you from the other side of the table. He seems so tired now, so utterly exhausted, that you wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a good night’s sleep - for all you know, it might have been years.

“You really wanna know what happened, uh?” he asks quietly, and you nod, even though you know he already knows the answer. He swirls the whiskey in his glass, letting another few seconds of silence crawl by before he turns his gaze to the fire. “Bad, all of it.”

“Please,” you whisper, and you’re loathe to bring back those painful weeks to mind, but you _need_ to know. You hear him take a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Went back to camp after you left with Abigail and Sadie. I think that was the moment Dutch finally lost it for good,” he starts, almost in a whisper. “I knew he was gone already, I knew it - but I still tried. Had to. Thought I might be able to get through to him.” He swallows thickly, the words catching in his throat. “In the end, he… Dutch and Bill and Javier… Micah got ‘em all. Got ‘em all to believe him. Twenty years I gave him, and he just - ”

His hand clenches into a fist as he cuts himself off with a swig of whiskey. There is rage still lurking in his voice, even after all those years - and grief, a grief so great that you don’t know if it’ll ever truly leave him.

“Camp was attacked. Pinkertons,” he continues. “Me and John fought ‘em off - “

“John’s alive?” you blurt out. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him, but you needed to be sure you had heard him right. All this time, you had thought that John had died on that cursed train.

Arthur nods, pressing his lips into a thin, hard line.

“Dutch’d left him for dead, but yeah, he’s alive - dragged himself back to camp. Somewhere up North now, I think, with his family.”

That brings you some comfort - it was good to know that, despite everything, the Marston family hadn’t been torn apart, after all.

“Fought the Pinkertons with John while the rest of ‘em ran away,” he starts again. His eyes are still on the fireplace, the flames sending stark shadows dancing along the harsh lines of his face. “We got away too, eventually.”

He brings his glass up to his lips again, draining the last of his whiskey. You refill it without him asking.

“Got John to leave. Woulda been dead for good if he hadn’t,” he says. “Wanted to draw the Pinkertons off him. I was ready to die on that mountain - I really was.” He’s silent again for a long while, lost in his memories, and you can’t help but wonder how everything could have gone so wrong. “Then Micah… he came outta nowhere, started beatin’ on me. Shoulda shot me right then, but I guess he wanted to prove a point, had some things to say that needed sayin’. Always did like to hear himself talk.” There is a sour smile on his lips, bitter and angry. “Worst part is, I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Dutch - came and kept Micah off me long enough to keep him from beatin’ me to death. Pretty sure he thought Micah’d already killed me - sure must have looked like it. But I think he saw, in the end. Dutch - he _saw_. Everything. Much too late, though.”

Another long swig of whiskey. Another sigh.

“They left me there, and I thought that was it - Pinkertons was gonna arrest me and hang me, no doubt about it. But I… I don’t know. Hid from the Pinkertons - don’t even remember how. Don’t know how long I spent on that damn mountain, either. Days, probably. It was Charles found me; said he thought I was dead and he’d come to bury me.” He chuckles dryly. “Nice thought, I guess. Brought me back with him to Wapiti. Took weeks to recover. Looked for the others when I finally left - but it’d been too long. They were all gone.”

Finally, he looks at you, anger and loss still plain in his gaze, though there is something there that you think akin to longing, as well.

“Looked for you,” he adds in a whisper. “ _Gone_.”

It’s only when he finally falls silent that you realise that your cheeks are wet with tears. Before you can wipe them away, he reaches across the table, brushing your cheeks dry with calloused hands. Your breath catches in your throat, his touch bringing back flashes of what you had denied yourself all those years ago - and how you had found yourself mourning something that never had been, once everything was over. You let your eyes flutter shut and allow yourself to lean into his touch. You reach up to grasp his hand when you feel him start to pull away, opening your eyes to meet his.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, though he makes no effort to free himself from your grip.

“What for?” you whisper, clasping his hand in both of yours and lowering it back to the table, holding tight. He doesn’t answer, looking down at his hand cradled in yours. You’re both silent for a long while, the cabin suddenly seeming even smaller as your world narrows down to the man sitting across from you.

“Looked for you, too,” you say eventually, drawing his gaze back to your face. “For a long time.”

“Why?” he asks. There is something raw in his voice, painful, as if torn between hope and despair.

“Guess I had some regrets,” you say simply, and you see in his eyes that he understands - you both remember that warm night on the shore of Flat Iron Lake, all those years ago, the night you should have said _yes_. He looks at you for a moment, weighing his words, the air between you heavy with things left unsaid.

“Was there ever a time you would have had me?” he asks quietly.

You let go of his hand as you rise from your seat, making your way to his side of the table so that you can stand in front of him. Your courage had failed you then, years ago - if he would still have you, you wouldn’t let it fail you now.

“I would’ve had you,” you breathe as he stands up as well, so close to you that you have but to angle your head up to meet his lips. You had been too afraid back then, too wrapped up in the shadows of your own mind; but you had grown and changed, and so had he. “Wanted to. More than anything.”

“Then why - “

“I don’t know,” you cut him off. “But I regretted it for a long time. And I don’t wanna live on regrets no more.”

His hand is flat on the table, and you see it inch forward toward your hip, though he still doesn’t dare to touch. His eyes drop down to your lips before meeting yours again.

“Think I’d like to kiss you now,” he whispers, and his hand finally leaves the table to brush against the small of your back, his fingers leaving a burning trail of hot coals on your touch-starved skin even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Think I’d like that,” you answer, and he slowly leans down to kiss you, pressing his lips to yours lightly, almost hesitantly. You lay a hand flat on his chest as you return his kiss, just as softly, feeling his heart beating loud and fast beneath your palm, mirroring the rhythm of your own. That seems to embolden him. His hands find your hips, drawing you tight against him; there is something almost desperate to his touch, almost as if tonight is his last night on Earth, or as if he’s just found a missing piece of himself he’d lost years ago.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long time,” he whispers between kisses. You lean away slightly, cradling his cheek.

“I know,” you answer. “Shoulda let you do it long ago.”

He lets out a rumbling laugh - he sounds more like himself now, the quiet but genuine laugh that you remembered from years ago tugging at your heart. You kiss him again as you grab his belt and pull his hips flush against yours, turning his laughter into a low groan - there’s heat gathering at your core, the culmination of years of longing and hoping and dreaming. He rocks against you almost involuntarily, slight movements that are enough to send sparks coursing through your veins - God, it’s been years since you’ve felt this way.

But he steps back suddenly, his hands shifting from your hips to your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length. He’s breathing heavily, looking at you with darkened eyes, but there is real concern in his voice when he speaks.

“Don’t have to do that,” he breathes. “If you don’t want to.”

You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything half as much as you want this - and you have but to look at him to know that he does, too. So you step forward back into his embrace, trailing kisses from his lips to his ear, his breath hot against your neck as you whisper:

“I know what I want, Arthur.”

The last word has barely left your mouth that his lips are on yours again, hungry and eager. His hands return to your hips before slipping lower, drawing a surprised gasp from you when he squeezes slightly, chuckling low against your lips at your reaction. You laugh in return when you wrench a quiet moan from him as you grind your hips into his, his grip tightening as he tries to bring you impossibly closer.

“Come on,” you breathe as you part from him, taking his hand in yours as you lead him further into the house. Your bedroom isn’t far, but it still takes the both of you much longer than it should to get there, barely able to keep your hands off each other. He allows you to open the door and lead him inside your small bedroom before his lips are on yours again, pushing you further in until you know you’re right next to your bed. You push away from him then, and he gives you a quizzical look, ready to reach for you again, but your hear him take in a sharp breath when you reach for the buttons of your blouse. He watches you for a moment, frozen, before he starts working on his own clothes, hurriedly pulling off his neckerchief as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers falter and stop when you take off your top, his eyes raking over you as you move on to your skirt. He’s just finally taken his shirt off when you let your skirt fall to the floor, followed closely by your undergarments. You wonder if you should feel vulnerable, standing there before him without so much as a stitch of clothing, but you’ve never felt so safe, so warm, so _wanted_. You see in his eyes how badly he wants to touch you, though he stays rooted in place, as if afraid his hands on your bare skin would hurt you. You step forward and take his hand, bringing it up to your cheek, holding it there for a moment before letting your hand fall away, and he slowly lets his touch sink to the curve of your neck, then your shoulder, feather-light, almost shy, down, down, until, finally, he reaches your hip, and his other hand comes up to pull you against him, the rough fabric of his pants scratching at your thighs. He bends over you, his lips following the same path his fingers had just moments before, trailing from your mouth to your jaw and down the side of your neck, lingering at the curve of your shoulder before he moves to brush kisses along the length of your collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything half as beautiful as you,” he whispers against your skin, and somehow you believe him. “Never.”

He kisses the swell of your breasts, quickly replacing his mouth with his hands as he moves lower. There is reverence in every kiss he presses to your skin, as if awed by your mere existence. You feel as if he’s learning you - every curve, every angle, every scar carefully discovered and explored with fingers and lips. He puts one knee to the ground as he kisses a path down your stomach, stopping just below your navel, his hands leaving your breasts to smooth down to your waist before settling at your hips once more as he looks up at you, silently asking for permission. A flame flares to life in your stomach when you realise what he wants; you simply nod, and take a few steps back, sitting on the edge of your bed. He follows closely, waiting for you to lay down on your back before kneeling before you again. You feel his hand grip your thighs, prying your legs wider apart to accommodate his broad shoulders, and you can’t help but shiver in anticipation as you watch him take his place. He kisses the inside of your knee first, lingering there for a moment before moving higher. His beard tickles you slightly, though you’re far more preoccupied with the feeling of his lips on you as he peppers light kisses to your inner thighs - so preoccupied, in fact, that you don’t notice his hands until they hook beneath your thighs, bringing your legs over his shoulders before he rests one hand flat on your stomach while the other finds your hip, fingers gripping tight as his lips ghost over your center, tantalizingly close but not quite touching. You try to pull away reflexively, but his hands keep you anchored against him. The mere feeling of his warm breath fanning over you is enough to draw a quiet, needy moan from you, and you almost feel embarrassed; but as he meets your eyes one last time, making sure you haven’t changed your mind, you nod, and it’s all he needs to begin.

He starts by pressing light kisses against you, gently, almost reverently, sending teasing tremors running from your toes to your stomach, before he parts you with his tongue in one, long stroke. Just that is enough to make you gasp; it had been years since you’d been with anyone, and his touch awakens forgotten parts of you that you had thought gone forever. Your hands fist into the sheets beneath you at the foreign sensation of his mouth on you, his tongue in you - you were not inexperienced, but you cannot recall a single moment where it had felt quite like this, quite so warm and good and _right_.

He’s relentless, exacting moan after moan from you, faster and faster, louder and louder, until there is nothing left in the world but him and the tight ball of heat gathering low in your stomach, about to burst. He moans against you when you bring your hand to his head, threading your fingers through his hair as you press him closer to you, the low sound resonating against you in just the right way to finally bring you over the edge.

Your free hand shoots to the one he keeps on your hip, gripping tight as he unravels you, seemingly effortlessly, whispering adoring praise against your skin as you shudder and shake, pressing fervent kisses to whatever skin he can reach until, finally, the last of your trembling subsides. You take a moment to steady your breathing before you sit up slowly, drawing him in for a kiss and tasting yourself on his tongue. He parts from you as he stands up, and your hands are at his belt buckle before he can even reach for it, quick and eager.

“I think it’s time you got outta these,” you whisper with a sly smile, and he can only growl his approval as you shove his pants halfway down his thighs before letting him take over as you lay back down on the bed, properly this time. He makes quick work of his remaining clothes, and he stands at your bedside for a moment, looking you over slowly as if he’s trying to etch every single detail of you into his memory. You almost blush under his intense gaze - a foolish thing, considering your current situation.

“Not gonna tell you how many times I’ve thought of this,” he whispers, and you can’t help a quiet laugh as he finally joins you. Your hands find his shoulders as he comes to hold himself over you, one moving up to cradle the back of his head when he bends down to kiss his way from your collarbone to your lips, while the other slides down to press against his chest, feeling the wiry hair and the raised skin of old scars. He’s hard and hot against your thigh, and you move to take him in your hand, ripping a long groan from his throat as you stroke him slowly.

“Been a while,” he rasps, low and strained as his own hand reaches down to still yours. You meet his eyes and see them boiling with want. “Keep doin’ that and it’ll be over before it starts.”

“Waited for you too long to let that happen,” you whisper teasingly, spreading your legs wider in silent invitation as both of your hands return to his shoulders. You feel his palm smooth over your thigh as he kisses you again; his touch feels more familiar than it should, though you can’t tell exactly why - you’re not sure you care. All that matters is that he’s alive, and safe, and he’s with you.

He pushes inside you slowly, carefully - you’re grateful for that; it’s been a while for you, too. He stays still for a moment while you get used to feeling each other in a way that you had both longed to for what seemed to be an eternity, burying his face in the crook of your neck and exhaling shakily. You run a soothing hand through his hair, lightly kissing his temple until the first roll of his hips into yours wrenches a soft groan from your throat, the hand you held in his hair balling into a fist and pulling slightly. He sets a slow rhythm, torturously so, as if reveling in your warmth, the feeling of you against him and around him. Your hands smooth down his back - you feel more scars there, more stories; there’d be time for that later, you hoped - before settling at his hips, wordlessly urging him on.

“Hasn’t been a single day in all those years where I didn’t think of you,” he whispers as he starts to thrust harder - but not faster, still taking his time, dragging long, pleading moans from deep within you. “Wonderin’ where you were. Who you were with. Wonderin’ if you still thought about me.”

He brings one hand up to cradle your cheek as he meets your eye. You don’t think he’s truly asking, don’t think he’s really expecting an answer, yet you still find yourself breathing out half-mumbled words that you’re not even sure he can understand.

“Told myself I shouldn’t.” You arch your back off the bed when his hand snakes down to your core, stoking the fire of your pleasure once more, pressing your chest against his. He groans at that, his hips stuttering against yours for a moment before he starts again, faster this time. You grind down against his fingers, his hips, hands gripping tight, and you shiver apart - not as strongly as before, but your next words still come as half-stifled moans. “But I did - _I did_.”

He says nothing, simply pressing his lips to yours as you feel his rhythm grow more and more erratic as you whisper quiet encouragements against his ear until he shudders and gasps, pulling himself from you just in time to spill himself on your thighs, your hand reaching down between you to stroke him to the last of his pleasure as you place light kisses against his jaw. Your hands move up his sides as he stills, letting him catch his breath before you draw him in for a kiss and allow him to move off you. He lays down next to you, rough fingertips lingering on your stomach, tracing aimless patterns as he meets your eyes - for the first time this evening, they seem clear, unobscured, as if a veil had been lifted from them - from him. You can’t help a smile at the sight, and you reach out a hand to brush a trail from his brow, along his jaw, and to his mouth; he turns his head slightly to kiss your fingers, warm and soft. You leave him there to go clean yourself up, feeling his eyes on you as you stand up and stretch. When you come back into the room, you find him lying on his back, one arm folded with his hand under his head, and the other at his side. You climb back onto the bed, his free hand touching your upper arm to beckon you closer, and you lay down next to him, nestled against his side, his arm around your shoulders and his hand on your back, warm and comforting. You feel yourself start to doze off.

“Shame,” he whispers after what seems like an eternity, snapping you out of your daze. “All them years we lost.”

You stay silent for a moment, remembering how many time you had wished for things to be different. You could let him go now, of course - but you know that, if you do, you’ll feel incomplete for the rest of your days. So you snake a hand over his chest, curling your fingers at the side of his neck when he turns his head to look at you.

“We still got time to make up for them,” you breathe. “If you want.”

He can’t quite hide his surprise at your words - widening eyes and tightening grip just enough to betray his incredulity - and he looks at you for a long time, as if trying to decide if he’s heard you right, until you draw him down to your lips. _Stay_.

“If you’ll have me,” he whispers against your mouth. He’s smiling.

“Always,” you reply, and suddenly the years hardly seem to matter - neither of you had truly ever left the other’s thoughts, and if time itself couldn’t keep you apart, then nothing would ever be able to.


End file.
